


The Tradition

by OberonsEarring



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 08:38:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16807216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OberonsEarring/pseuds/OberonsEarring
Summary: Set post-Schism, Scott and Wolverine meet up for their decades long Christmas tradition.





	The Tradition

Nothingness stretched for miles out here, in the cold, in the tundra. A few fishing villages dotted the landscape, an old out of the way bar that served beer and the few drinks that the bartender knew how to make. It was a ramshackle old place, a few bar stools, some rickety wooden tables, and a pool game along the right wall. Just the kind of place that Logan enjoyed, and the only kind of place that Summers wouldn't draw notice anymore. Not since his departure, not since being labeled a terrorist.

“Why are we doing this?” he asked quietly, red lenses focused upon the gin and soda swirling in his hand. He wasn't a man for hard liquor, but there were times when it was the only thing that would settle his nerves, let him keep hold of himself so he didn't burst at the seems.

“It's Christmas, Scott. This is what we always do on Christmas.”

Almost twenty years they've been coming here. Away from Jean. Away from Emma. He'd already rented the room up above for the night, made it as cozy as he could with blankets swiped from Scott's old room at the mansion, and the little oak box where they kept their receipts – the singular reminder of their time together. “Didn't think you'd show,” Logan said at last, watching as Scott gulped down the remainder of his drink. 

Two fingers in the air, he nodded for a refill, which was brought promptly to their table by the young woman in a dark red flannel shirt. No need for fashion out here. No one would notice anyway. “You knew I would.” Regardless of what Logan thought, Scott didn't hate him. Never did, never would. 

Logan watched Scott gulp the second drink with more fury than the first, and ask for a third. He cautioned the man about his alcohol tolerance, but Scott just shook his head. “Drunk or sober, it doesn't matter.” Then earnestly, his voice a whisper. “I miss you, Logan.”

It had started with a mission. News of Reaver activity that Scott wanted to get a handle on before it got out of control. And they were finished quick enough, but the blizzard had come in all too quick, making it impossible to get back to the Blackbird. Snowed in, they had drunk themselves silly and wound up in the rented room at the top of the stairs. Summers kissed him first, like his life depended on it, pulling and tugging at his his hair, holding him as tightly as possible. Logan kissed back, enjoying the touch of his leader's lips upon him, the scent of him, the warmth of him. And kisses led to the other things, until Scott was nearly folded in half beneath him, with Logan pumping away until they both reached climax at the same damn time. It was a beautiful thing, and both men slept well that night, far away from the nightmares that plagued their sleep, far away from all the turmoil and pain that usually eclipsed their lives. It had been a Christmas tradition ever since, sometimes on birthdays, sometimes at random. 

If Jean had caught on, she never said so. And Emma.... As much as Scott loved her, he loved Logan more, only neither man was in a position to outright say it or show it or in any way, shape, or form let the world find out about it. Logan feared his enemies would take advantage; Scott was afraid of breaking someone's heart. He needed Jean, then Emma, like the air he breathed, and Logan, Logan was something else entirely. He was a seed so deep inside of his soul and he feared it sprouting, taking hold. He feared what he would become inside of the man's arm, and Logan understood the fear because he had the same one.

“Should we go upstairs?” Logan asked, watching Scott finish off his third glass. Summers shook his head. He wasn't ready yet. He was still nervous, still worried. He was afraid that Logan would leave him for good this time, that this would be their last. Alcohol always did loosen his words. “You know me better than that, Slim,” he said, saddened now by the shaken visage of the man across from him. The confession, the words, they were hard to take, not only because they were said, but because they were said by Scott.

Scott was always the best there was at repressing things – from a simple smile to the complexities of his fears and wants and needs and everything thing else that made a person palatable. He was a robot at times, running off sheer logic and facts, wanting nothing more than to get the job done, but needing something else entirely. “I really miss you, Logan,” he said again, his voice trembling. He ordered another drink, his red lenses never once peering up into Logan's eyes, afraid of what he would find there. 

“I know you do.” And he missed Scott back. Like blood. He missed Scott like blood - the very thing that gave him life. Without him, with this schism between them, he felt asleep most days, tingly and barely aware, like a lack of circulation coursing throughout his veins. He missed the warmth of these days, these nights. But, he was too proud to tell Scott that. Too proud to tell him that he was wrong, that he shouldn't have left, that he should have stayed and helped, saw him through these dark times; proved himself to be as needed as he knew he was. 

Too bad for Scott -who, with the flush of alcohol turning his pale skin a warm shade of pink - was slowly starting to break under the loosening of his lips. Logan could see it, and he wanted it. He wanted to see his forlorn lover come undone in so many ways that he licked his lips at the deliciousness of it. “Why are you punishing me?” Summers asked. “Why do you always punish me?”

The question was a startling one, and best left for a more private setting. Slapping a large bill on the counter, he purchased the rest of the gin, and with that in hand, he led Scott up to the room that they would share for the night.

Usually, by now, before the door would even be unlocked, Scott would be half undressed, hard as a rock, waiting, needing to throw Logan on the bed and smother him with a thousand wet and luscious kisses. Their first time of the night would go quickly – the time away making them urgent, making them all too ready to explode against each other with cries and bellows and sighs and stickiness. 

But, tonight, with all that's gone on between them – even with the booze tripping up his steps as he entered the room – Scott was just too nervous, to saddened, to in need of conversation from the man he loved. He needed explanation, closure, something – anything – to settle him, make him understand what exactly happened and why Logan left him. “I love you,” he said quietly into the silence. 

Logan's lack of words stung the other man's eyes, pulled a deep breath inside of his chest, and a small shiver of a moan escaped his throat. “Please,” he begged. “Stop punishing me.”

Logan poured them both a shot of gin, and they gulped it down in silence. “You had enough yet?” he asked, and Summers shook his head no. Another shot, and another, and Scott was woozy on his feet, pacing the floor, waiting for Logan to speak. “Come back to me,” he said. “We can fix this. We can fix everything.”

“Ain't nothing to be fixed, Scotty. It is what it is. You're a wanted terrorist, and I'm a school teacher. You killed Xavier and I stood by and watched you do it.” His words hurt a drunken Cyclops, rammed a million tiny daggers right into his heart, and then twisted them until he bled. He could smell the soft scent of collapse upon his lover – the fear, the sadness, the overwhelming need to scream and once again tell the world that he was possessed by a creature he couldn't control, and that he'd had no intention of killing the man he considered a father.

But even drunk, Cyclops was a vault, an unbreakable vault. He was practiced at this, at the stoic look upon his face, a look that even the wisest of people couldn't read. Hardened jaw, slack hands, smooth brow, he carried his pain like he did his love, locked up and protected away from the rest of the world. “Let's just get this over with,” he said quietly, the pain in his voice a quiet etching. 

Logan nodded and took another shot of gin. He offered Scott one, too, to make him warm, to make him forget the pain he just trudged across the other man. He stood and pulled Summers' shirt over his head, watching as he bent over to make it easier for the shorter mutant. He was a beautiful sight, so fit, so scarred. Logan trailed his hands up and down the washboard abs, then up to well-defined chest, and finally to neck. He could see the scars that he left there, still, slender and pink, three long claws that slashed him shoulder to shoulder. “I'm sorry,” he finally eked out, though it pained him to do so. Scott shrugged, used to it by now, used to being an enemy of the world. 

The kiss was soft at first, tremulous, just lips on lips and nothing more. They continued to disrobe until they both stood naked in front of each other, still soft below the waist, still hungry for that something more they still carried for each other. If Logan could see into Scott's eyes, he wondered what he would find there. The pain, the love, the lust, the need. He wondered if any of it was still there. 

The next kiss was a bit more frantic, searching, desirous. Tongues clashed and warred inside their mouths, lips sucked and sipped as the two men fed upon each other. Hands searched and roamed and groped, careful across wounds, grasping at the softer places that would bring with the moans that they both craved to hear. 

Scott fell upon the bed, let Logan climb on top of him. He was heavier, now, the good life agreeing with him. More muscular, better fed. The world loved Logan, would forgive him anything, and so would Scott, if Logan would just ask. He trundled his hands up the back of neck and into the tangles of wild, black hair, and arched his back when his lover finally found that spot behind his ear, the one that sent a million chimes down his spine and finally jolted him to wakefulness. Logan smiled at the sudden pressure against his thigh, smiled and dipped back in, running tongue and warm breath over the precious pulse point. 

Scott writhed in pleasure as Logan searched his body for the small treasures hidden beneath the mass of scars and muscles, those little places that year by year grew hungrier for attention. The places that neither Emma nor Jean ever found, ever bothered to touch. Down his chest, to his waist, to the waiting heat below.

It was always easiest the first time, their time apart making them so needful of each other, that heat was easy to rise and easier to fall. Logan had to be careful, to make it last, at least long enough for him to get inside. 

On his knees at the edge of the bed, he tipped his tongue against the already leaking head of Scott's arousal, listening to the sharp hiss of pleasure that escaped the other man's throat. His lips moistened by tongue, he swallowed down on the man's erection, bobbing his head in time with the gentle push of fingers against Scott's ass. He was always tight the first time around, but the lube in Logan's pocket – that sterile package – made things by far easier. He pushed one crooked finger in, and waited for the pressured moan to subside and for Cyke to relax before he plumbed the depths in search of the sweetest spot, and when he found it, Scott's voice was choked and rapturous, seeping out Logan's name as he found that place again and again.

They fit together like a hand to glove. They always had, and as Wolverine pulled Scott's legs over his shoulders, he stretched in for a long, wonderful kiss before leading himself inside that tight passage and watching as his lover lost himself to the fullness that he had so desperately craved.

He started out slow, making sure that Scott was relaxed, even-breathed, ready before he plunged himself inside further and faster, in time with stilted breath and the delightful moans that poured from Scott's body. It was electric, jolting down spine and over hands. The way they moved together, the way they knew each other. Each stroke a pleasure that built up in their loins, that pushed up like a volcano between them until they both finally erupted in moans and cries and harsh rasps that spit out their love for each other.

Sated, for the moment, Logan fell in beside Scott, slowly kissing at his stomach, lapping up the seeds of their love for each other. “I miss you, too,” he finally said, stroking hot hand against Summers' reddened cheek. He pushed the bangs away from lenses, watched the soft, sad smile slip across right cheek. “More than I ever thought I would.”

He watched as Scott's breath drifted off into hazy sleep, and turned to the window to watch the snow. The oaken box was nearly full with their rendezvous. All these reminders of their very much requited love that they refused to share with the world. They could stay here, Logan thought to himself, watching as Scott rolled over in his sleep. They could jobs on the boats, a little shack on the corner of town. They could leave their lives behind them, come here and settle into their short days and long nights, never again letting the world beyond them hold sway. 

Indeed, they could fix this, this schism between them. They could finally be happy, perhaps for the first time in their lives. 

“Merry Christmas, Scott,” he whispered as he puts another shot of gin to his lips. “I love you, too.”


End file.
